


Destroying Puppet Strings

by mariephantomhive



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:32:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariephantomhive/pseuds/mariephantomhive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a fan of ignoring a problem until eventually it just goes away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Destroying Puppet Strings

**Author's Note:**

> This is a lot of firsts. My first work in English, first for the Teen Wolf fandom, first slash, first attempt at writing after a two year block. I would like to thank [Nina](http://www.thebrotherswinchester.tumblr.com) for being a wonderful─and very thorough─beta, and [Noa](http://www.londontiss.tumblr.com) and [Luma](http://www.halestiles.tumblr.com) for being incredibly supportive as always. I love you guys, I couldn't have done it without you.

Stiles is a fan of ignoring a problem until eventually it just goes away.  
  
That's why, the first time Derek shoves him into his bedroom door, fisting his shirt to keep him in place ─  
  
( _or maybe just to pull him closer_ )  
  
─ and Stiles’ gaze inadvertently drops to the slightly parted mouth currently a few ( _too few_ ) inches from his own, he ignores it. He ignores it, but doesn’t look away. He rattles out something in autopilot, something stupid and sarcastic about a murder suspect being in his bedroom and his dad carrying a gun, and eventually shuts up. They just stay there, unmoving, breathing in each other’s air; Derek seems incapable of fixing his gaze on something, his eyes darting from Stiles’ eyes to his mouth and back to his eyes again─  
  
( _the skin his eyes have caressed is on fire, paths of flames spread across his features, he’s burning up_ )  
  
─and then Stiles says something else, equally stupid, about _harboring Derek’s fugitive ass_ , but that turns out to be a terrible choice of words, looking at his current state, so he shuts his dumb mouth one more time. The fugitive in question actually looks away at that, slowly releasing his grip on Stiles’ abused shirt and glaring at him one last time before pulling away completely.  
  
He’s a healthy, curious, really open-minded young man. That’s the concise explanation Stiles gives himself later, forcing his dumb, out-of-focus brain not to dig too deep. His reaction was a completely ordinary hormonal response.  
  
He doesn’t let himself dwell on why, when he traces the paths Derek’s gaze has forged with trembling fingers, long after the older man has gone away, the pale skin still feels warm under his fingertips.  
  


~*~

  
Stiles knows he’s not a saint. He’s always been a curious person, way too curious for his own good, and it’s assured him a long-term relationship with trouble. There’s nothing he can do about it. Except for the fact that his best friend was turned into a werewolf, therefore the kind of trouble he gets himself into now inevitably leads him to run for his life from the monster of the week. Needless to say, it’s caused his perspective on certain matters to shift considerably.  
  
So, when he finds himself breaking into Beacon Hill’s police station with the former murder suspect Derek Hale, who is also a freshly promoted Alpha werewolf, to get a freshly turned werewolf out of jail, _on a full moon_ , before one of the Argents’ hunters harms him, he doesn’t even flinch. When he butts heads with said hunter disguised as a cop in the hallway and notices the wolfsbane syringe he’s holding, he does nothing except yell ‘ _Fuck my life_!’ really loudly in his head. He would yell it out loud, except the hunter’s got a hand on his mouth and nose and is dragging him along the corridor unceremoniously, so he finds it almost impossible to breathe, let alone yell─  
  
( _his lungs are desperate for air and he can’t breathe in, the blood rushes to his head and everything spins and everything’s suddenly smaller and it’s just like before, just like after she died_ )  
  
─for help. While fighting for air, he catches sight of the fire alarm on the wall, and desperately tries to get to it. His fingers stretch, slip on the switch, but eventually he manages to set off the alarm. The obnoxious sound drills into his ears, and he almost doesn’t realize he’s being dropped on the floor of the cell room, flashing red lights everywhere around him.  
  
He wonders why the hunter hasn’t knocked him out yet, then realizes one of the cells is open and werewolf-free. He barely has the time to notice the horrified look on the hunter’s face when he comes to the same conclusion before Isaac attacks, slamming the hunter on the desk and then throwing him against a wall like he weighs nothing. The man tries to fight back, inject Isaac with the wolfsbane, but it’s a full moon and he’s not facing a scared boy anymore. Stiles hears the bones in the hunter’s arm crack from behind the desk he’s using as a shield, he hears his head hit the wall and his body slowly falling to the floor, like a puppet whose strings have been cut abruptly.  
  
His heart is racing, his throat’s impossibly dry and he’s still having a hard time breathing─  
  
( _it feels like something is clawing its way out of his throat, oh my god he’s going to die and leave his father and there’s nothing he can do to stop it, just like he couldn’t do anything when she--_ )  
  
─but then there’s a different sound, the sound of shattering glass, and Derek is there. Isaac barely spares him a look before setting his gaze on Stiles, who backs up against the wall, panting heavily. Derek notices the exchange, and just before Isaac attacks, he jumps between him and Stiles and roars. Nothing like Scott’s ridiculous growling; a full Alpha roar, and even though Stiles can’t see his face, he could swear his eyes are glowing red. The sound ricochets on the walls, leaves him shaking; apparently, it has a completely different effect on the young werewolf, who backs into the nearest wall, whining, every fiber of his body screaming submission.  
  
Stiles lets out a shaky breath before talking. “How did you do that?”  
  
“I’m the Alpha,” Derek says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and then walks out of the room, because he’s Derek Hale and he loves his drama.  
  
Shortly after Isaacs follows him out, still shaking and covered in sweat, and Stiles tries to stop his legs from trembling so he can stand and wait for his father to ground him until college.  
  
Stiles chooses to ignore the fact that he started breathing normally again the very moment his gaze met Derek’s.  
  


~*~

Coordination has never been Stiles’ best asset. That’s why he’s never made first line on the lacrosse team, that’s why he walks into doors and trips over random things all the time; his limbs are apparently as out of his control as his mouth. So, when his phone slips from his fingers while he’s trying to hold up a semi-paralyzed Derek and he accidentally drops him in the pool trying to recover said phone, he’s not really surprised.  
  
He just jumps in the pool.  
  
He ignores it like he ignores everything else that's related to Derek lately; he ignores the fact that he's just put his ass on the line for the man again, and it was as natural as drawing a breath.  
  
Derek’s almost reached the bottom, his own body acting as an anchor, holding him down, betraying him. Stiles reaches out for him, manages to get his arms around the man’s waist and goes for the surface, desperately trying to keep them both up; Derek finally breathes, and Stiles breathes with him, spitting water and putting the werewolf’s arm around his shoulders to hold him up.  
  
They soon find out that the only way they can make it out of this in one piece is by staying in the pool, because apparently the creature is afraid of the water; it keeps circling the pool, getting close but never close enough to be a threat, at least until they stay in.  
  
Unfortunately, Derek’s weight isn’t that of a feather, and there’s the bonus paralysis; therefore, after two hours of struggling to keep them both from drowning, Stiles’ limbs start to ache and his lungs to burn, consumed by chlorine.  
  
“Okay, I don’t think I can do this much longer,” he pants, water flooding his mouth as soon as he opens it to utter the words. His gaze darts around, looking for anything that could help them get out of this situation, and falls on his phone, abandoned near the border of the pool; Derek doesn’t miss it.  
  
“No, no, no, no, no! Don’t even think about it─”  
  
“Could you just trust me this once?” Stiles manages to spit out, exasperated. Speaking is getting more painful by the minute.  
  
“ _No_!”  
  
Derek’s immediate, almost yelled rejection makes him flinch. He was expecting it, except he wasn’t. The sharp reply burns in his chest, and he suddenly feels so _angry_.  
  
“I’m the one keeping you alive, have you noticed that?” Stiles spits, looking straight in Derek’s eyes. The water is wavering in them, making them brighter, fighting the shadow that threatens to swallow the blue when a bitter realization seems to hit the older man. His gaze hardens.  
  
“Yeah,” he scoffs, “and when the paralysis wears off, who’s gonna be able to fight that thing, you or me?”  
  
When he understands the implication of those words, Stiles doesn't feel angry anymore. He feels _furious_. “Okay, so that’s why I’ve been holding you up for the past two hours?”  
  
He looks into the man's eyes again, just for confirmation, and the realization that that's what Derek _really_ believes is like a punch in the guts. He doesn't think he's worth saving, he doesn't believe someone would help him just because they don't want him to─  
  
( _die, just like she did, and he can't bear losing someone else, he can't bear burying someone else, he can't_ )  
  
─get hurt. That's when it hits Stiles: how deeply Derek is locked in that shell of his, how clear his view of the world is, black or white, friend or enemy, no shades in between. He either lets you in completely, or locks you out.  
  
He's being locked out.  
  
He feels so _stupid_ , for believing he could be any different in his eyes, for thinking even for half a second he could breach those gates. He isn’t even pack, after all. He’s just the human with a talent for research and getting into trouble.  
  
“You don't trust me, I don't trust you. You need me to survive, which is why _you're not letting me go_.”  
  
The way Derek's speech flows, the fact that it sounds absolutely sincere, almost practiced, like he's repeated this in his mind many times, kicks the air out of his lungs. _That_ 's what he thinks he is to the people surrounding him?  
  
A shield, made of flesh and bone and piercing red eyes?  
  
In that moment, Stiles can _hear_ a thousand gates shutting loudly in front of him, Derek's voice fading, almost like a dream. He _knows_ the werewolf is behind those gates, but he just can't reach him. He can't even get in.  
  
Stiles wonders if a day will come when he doesn't feel helpless anymore. When he can reach out and change things, instead of standing by and watch everything crumble under his eyes.  
  
( _his best friend, her, his father, and now this, not again,_ please)  
  
He decides maybe this is the day.  
  
He lets go.  
  
Derek yells his name before going under, and the sound echoes in his ears while he swims towards the border as fast as he can, gets a grip on his phone and dials Scott's number. He unconsciously squeezes his eyes shut when he hears the thud of Derek's body hitting the bottom of the pool, distant and muffled by the wall of water.  
  
When his best friend picks up, Stiles finally breathes; then, of course, Scott dismisses him without letting him talk and hangs up on him, because that’s just the kind of dumb thing Scott does. He stares at the phone, outraged, for a brief moment; then drops it in the pool and goes under.  
  
Derek's dark figure stands out against the white tiles; he's not moving. His eyes are closed; his expression is peaceful, his features relaxed. Like he was expecting this. Like it’s a relief.  
  
( _don’t you do this to me, you selfish ass, not you_ too)  
  
He reaches out, gets a hold of the collar of Derek's shirt, and pulls. The water makes the gesture slow, heavy, but he eventually manages to put his arm around the man's waist again and go for the surface, mirroring his movements from before. By the time they're out, they're both struggling for air, and Stiles unconsciously draws the other man close. He doesn't even hear what Derek's asking him; he just tightens his grip like the man might disappear if he doesn’t and holds him tight, resting his head against Derek's.  
  
Water blurs the lines while they're standing there, entangled like that, water dancing around their bodies until it's impossible to say who's holding onto whom.  
  
They're not swallowing water, but to both of them, it feels like drowning anyway.  
  


~*~

Cold, hard wooden floor. Heavy metal around his wrists. The strong scent of blood and mold.  
  
These are the only things he can register at this point.  
  
The pain isn't gone, but it's still not as sharp as before. It's everywhere, in his legs, his arms, his head, his chest. He doesn't seem to be able to find a spot that doesn't hurt.  
  
At a certain point, he can't even tell if the scent of blood is permeating the place or just his nostrils.  
  
The only thing that helps him keeping track of the time passing─  
  
( _it's fluid, untouchable, just like mist_ )  
  
─it's the hunters coming inside the room every now and then. They ask their questions, but Stiles remains silent. He used to reply, at first. Snarky, sarcastic replies, but replies all the same.  
  
None of those went unpunished.  
  
He knows exactly how many of those he's given, because the hunters' definitely not amused reactions are all over his body.  
  
After a while, his tongue has turned into stone. He doesn't remember the last time he opened his mouth to let out something other than a pained moan. His body jumps by reflex when the blows hit him; his face seems the one of a puppet when they slap him hard enough to draw blood.  
  
There's blood everywhere. Drying on his cheeks, dropping inside his slightly parted lips, soaking his clothes.  
  
He knows he's going to die in here. It's not a logically induced conclusion: just a brutal, instinctive one that hits him one day, during one of his rare waking moments. He holds onto that realization, because they've stripped him bare of everything else.  
  
For the first time in days─  
  
( _or maybe it's been just a few hours? time here is like sunlight seeping through tree branches, and you can't get a hold of sunlight, can you?_ )  
  
─he opens his eyes.  
  
It doesn't feel like he has, though.  
  
Everything is dark. Deep, smothering darkness all around him, so thick he can almost _breathe_ it. He's been feeding off viscous blood and thick darkness and he doesn't know how much more he can take.  
  
Then, suddenly, a door opens and a light hits him like a punch in the face, forcing him to shut his eyelids against it. Someone's come into the room.  
  
“Stiles Stilinski, the boy who runs with wolves.”  
  
He recognizes the owner of that voice immediately, but doesn't even flinch.  
  
“Did you know some of the hunters started to call you that? You're a mystery to them, Mr.Stilinski.” Gerard explains, seemingly amused. “But, you see, standing alongside monsters doesn't make them any less dangerous. It's going to bite you in the ass, sooner or later. Quite literally, I'm afraid.”  
  
Stiles doesn't move. If he had any strength left, though, he would snort _really_ loudly. The man's got him chained to a wall and beaten to a pulp and he's making _jokes_. Unbelievable.  
  
“Ultimately, it all comes down to loyalty.” Gerard continues; Stiles can feel him getting closer. “That's just who you are, it's written in your bones, isn't it? It’s admirable, really. After all, you are your father's son.”  
  
At the mention of his father, Stiles flinches like he's just been slapped across the face. Gerard doesn't miss it.  
  
“Yet, look where your loyalty has brought you. Is it really worth it, Stiles? Is that pack you pretend you belong to really worth your life?”  
  
The words cut deeper than any knife, because they're _true_. He's known it all along; he doesn't really belong to the pack. He's just been telling himself that lie to escape from the loneliness trying to swallow him whole.  
  
“Do you actually think they care about you? You're human, Stiles. You can't compete with that; no matter how fast you run, you'll always get left behind.”  
  
The words are so familiar─  
  
( _endless nights, spent staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out why they would let him stay_ )  
  
─that, at a certain point, he can't tell if they're coming from Gerard's mouth or echoing in his own mind.  
  
“The truth is, Mr. Stilinski, that at the end of the day, you are completely alo─”  
  
Gerard's words get interrupted by a loud crash, somewhere on the other side of the place. He immediately turns away from Stiles, slamming the door on his way out.  
  
The silence has been broken; he can hear hunters yelling, the sound of guns being loaded and fired, while the noise gets closer and closer to the room he's being held in. Suddenly, there's a sound that makes the whole place shake from the very ground it's standing on.  
  
A wolf howl.  
  
The door opens again and a group of hunters take position in the room; he's looking at their backs while they point their guns, loaded and ready to fire, at the empty threshold.  
  
The whole thing is so quick they don't even have time to put their fingers on the trigger.  
  
The werewolf is fast, but it's not precise: it rips flesh and bone, throws bodies against the walls, but it's sloppy, driven by pure animal instinct. He gets a glimpse of red in the darkness.  
  
“Derek.”  
  
The word barely comes out as a whisper, his voice rusty and hardly used like an old gate.  
  
The slaughter doesn't stop. The screaming has gone quiet.  
  
“Derek, _please_.”  
  
His voice breaks on the last word.  
  
The massacre stops. Everything is unbearably quiet now, just like before.  
  
He can see Derek slowly regaining control; his fangs are retracting, his features are going back to normal and his eyes aren't red anymore.  
  
Then his gaze falls upon Stiles, and it's bright red all over again.  
  
Before he can even bat his eyelashes, the Alpha is breaking the chains like they're made of paper and lifting him in his arms. He wants to protest─he's not a damn damsel in distress, for Christ's sake─but he doesn't have enough strength for that, so he just buries his face in Derek's t-shirt and breathes in.  
  
It smells of blood.  
  
Suddenly his chest feels too small for his lungs and his heart starts pounding so hard he thinks he'll find a scar later. Derek notices immediately and comes to a halt. “Stiles, what's wrong?”  
  
He wants to answer. His lungs strongly disagree. “Stiles, talk to me. What is it?”  
  
He just clenches Derek's shirt until his knuckles go white and _really_ looks at him for the first time since he's been rescued. The werewolf's pale, exhaustion etched in his features; he doesn't seem to have gotten a lot of sleep lately. His eyes aren't red anymore, though.  
  
Derek runs outside as fast as he can and gently places him on the ground; it's slightly wet, it must be early in the morning. He keeps his eyes shut against the pale morning light and tries to inhale, but the scent it's still there, stronger than ever, clogging up his nostrils.  
  
“He's having a panic attack.” Scott's voice is suddenly next to him, but it doesn't calm him down. The scent is really strong on him, too. “You need to take him away from here.”  
  
He can feel the moment Derek stops breathing. Stiles is not any less surprised by Scott's sudden trust towards the older man. His eyelids part slightly, enough to get a glimpse of Derek looking at Scott and nodding. _Maybe that's what it feels like to be in a pack_ , he thinks. Then he's being lifted again and Derek starts running.  
  
They go deep into the forest; apparently they'd been holding him in some sort of cabin. When they reach a spot sufficiently far from the cabin, Derek lowers him on the ground again and kneels next to him; he looks so _helpless_.  
  
“Blood. There's too much─," Stiles chokes, and that's everything he manages to say before gasping again.  
  
He can see the glimpse of understanding in the Alpha's eyes then; he watches him take his blood-stained shirt off and toss it aside. Next thing he knows, Derek's nose is buried deep in the crook of his neck.  
  
“Breathe, Stiles.”  
  
It sounds like an order and a plea at the same time, and Stiles breaks.  
  
Tears starts running down his face, mixing with dried blood and dirt, and Derek just holds him. He doesn't move, even if he wants too; Stiles can feel the man's body tense like a bow-string. After a while, he starts breathing again, slowly, against Derek's skin, and as soon as his heartbeat has gone back to normal, the older man starts moving.  
  
At first it's just hands on his face, gently tracing the same paths he once drew with his gaze─  
  
( _they aren't scorching hot anymore, they aren't bruising, they're cool and soothing on his battered face, just like morning mist_ )  
  
─while he was pinned against the door in his bedroom; then the hands are replaced by Derek's mouth, placing butterfly kisses along his jaw, on the tip of his nose, on his eyelids. He kisses away his tears and takes the blood away with them.  
  
Stiles can tell it's less about kissing and more about holding on; Derek's movements are frantic, urgent, and at some point the boy thinks he's heard him whispering “ _Mine_ ” next to his ear, but he could have imagined it.  
  
“I thought” Derek breathes out, running his hands on Stiles' back and closing his mouth on his collarbone, “I thought I'd lost you.”  
  
“Good luck getting rid of me, sourwolf.”  
  
It's like a dam breaks open, and Derek's lips are on his own, desperate, but not bruising. He alternates between light brushes of lips and deep, breath-taking kisses that leave Stiles light-headed. It's all about _keeping him there_ ; Derek's hands are everywhere, they never stop caressing his body, like he wants to mark him forever, like he's afraid Stiles will disappear if he lets go of him.  
  
Eventually they break apart, but Stiles isn't gasping for air. Derek is a warm, solid weight next to him; his arms are surrounding him and it should feel suffocating, but it doesn't. In a moment where Stiles feels like he could wander off into space, Derek is grounding him. _Maybe he isn't the only one who needs an anchor_ , the boy thinks.  
  
He breathes in, and he can't smell blood anymore, not even the faintest trace of it. There's only the smell of dew, grass and pine needles.  
  
It smells like Derek.  
  
It smells like home.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you notice the four elements bonus? ;)
> 
> Psssst, I'm also on [tumblr](http://www.mariephantomhive.tumblr.com).


End file.
